Mario watched her move down the street, just as he had done numerous times. “Bom dia, Mariozinho,” Joana said playfully, teasing, as he passed her, her dress like a light blue sail before his eyes. He wasn’t a little boy anymore; he was fifteen now. Mario blushed, turning away for a moment, then looked after her. As always, he was struck speechless. Even in her kindness she could be cruel.
He finally found his voice, though it came out as no more than a whisper. “Bom dia, Joana.” He refused to refer to her as dona or senhora, the way everyone else did.
She wore a dress that went past her knees and flared outward in a colorful sweep of flowers and vines. There was something almost wild and untamed about her, something that the animals recognized—as if she were one of them, not like the people she lived among.
He stood watching the bare part of her lower legs, her feet in tiny light shoes that tapped on the cobblestone street, her wide, curving hips, and the dress billowing recklessly in the warm wind of the afternoon.
He wished there was some way he could control his heartbeat; it beat rhythms he was wholly unused to, like the fast songs he sometimes heard from Brazil. It left him sweaty and struggling to catch his breath, almost as bad as the time his friend, Manuel, had hit him in the stomach.
She hardly ever took notice of him, as if he were still a little boy. But he knew far more than he had when they used to play together. He was grown up now; he had seen his uncle die, and a friend his own age had drowned. He had changed. He’d grown taller and stronger, and felt as if the lava that sometimes erupted from the mountain filled his veins instead of blood. And she? She was like the sea, restless and unpredictable.
Other girls wore dresses and walked by, but Joana held secrets within the folds of her skirt. He saw her pause to talk to a girlfriend. Her dress rippled and played in the breeze.
Waves.
Her dress seemed so full, so alive. He wondered if there was light that shone there, where her legs widened and met, joining the rest of her body.
Mario could see she was content, happy with her secret. Did she think of it as a mystery to protect? He had a vision of twilight in a garden.
He looked at her bottom, which had widened. It was not fat or even large, but there was so much beneath that dress: new uncharted worlds.
It was worse when he thought about her at night: then images would spring to mind of the exotic creatures which he envisioned lurking in that strange region, of the wild, changing topiary of secret hairs, the white sandy strand of her stomach, the tug of tides flowing, the echo of waves, and the whisper of something not yet spoken.
Whenever near her, he couldn’t control the urge to reach over and touch her, to brush against her, even though it always left him feeling shaken and weak.
He had never seen her with any boyfriends, and he kept his feelings about her to himself. Everyone else thought she was odd, different. “She’s a strange, moody child,” people said. “A dreamy child.” Her round face, pale in contrast with her long, almost black hair. Light gray eyes that sometimes mirrored the color of the horizon.
As Joana talked to her friends, Mario watched how she kept her hands at her sides, as though she had to constantly keep her dress from flying out. You could see it: furtive movements here and there, very quick, with the expertise of calm yet firm control. There was always a whirlwind blowing about her ankles and around her knees, lifting her skirt playfully.
She chatted freely, laughing and smiling, the words floating up out of her mouth as if they had wings of their own. And it didn’t matter that he didn’t know what she was saying; just to hear the musical sound of a word now and again was enough.
Then it was over, and all the girls left, leaving Mario standing alone, feeling lost.
Mario finally walked away and headed for home, eager to find out when he could go with his mother to visit the Medroso family—to see Joana smile and to breathe in her scent.
~ ~ ~
Joana Medroso’s family quietly settled down at the long table for supper. There were settings for ten, though only five were seated. The house felt both empty and hollow, as if a death had fallen upon the household. There was usually a bustle of neighbors and friends visiting for lunch or dinner, and in the evenings talking politics, or about the problems of the islands, the way Lisbon always took from the Azores but gave nothing in return, or gossiping about the other families of Horta. But people had been visiting less often of late, as Joana’s inability to conceive had become more and more a topic of conversation and concern.
“This is not life,” Joana’s mother, Maria Conceição de Medroso, said in a shaky voice, “but a vale of tears.” She looked heavenward and sighed. She was a large woman whose face drooped in a fixed look of sorrow. When she sighed her cheeks and double chin shook.
“What was that?” asked her husband. “Clichés? Another something you got out of one of your damned books?”
“Go ahead, swear and make light of our misery. So what if we are the laughingstock? What do you care that the whole world knows of our shame?”
“Mother, please,” Joana said, stammering.
“Shame, flame. I don’t care what these fools think or say behind my back.” Senhor Medroso was a silver-haired man in his late sixties, who, despite his small frame, was taut and muscular. He leaned forward as he spoke, and appeared to be on the verge of vaulting across the table.
“It is not asking so much, is it? My only daughter, to have one child? One offspring? What is a woman to do?”
“Mother!”
Conceição’s son-in-law, Joaquim, cleared his throat.
“Well, aren’t you going to say something?” Joana said.
“To be married two empty years,” Conceição continued. “Lord, what a burden.”
Joana got up from the table, threw her napkin down on her chair, and stormed out of the room. Joaquim continued to sit, slurping his soup.
“That girl’s temper is only going to make matters worse. How can someone so temperamental possibly conceive?”
“In the middle of my meal do I have to listen to this kind of talk?” Senhor Medroso shouted. “Enough is enough!”
“Just look at our table. It’s half empty. Why do you think no one comes here to see us?”
Joaquim wiped his mouth on his napkin and helped himself to the platter of meat.
“So much the better. Let them stay at home. I don’t need to see a bunch of nosy old windbags anyway.”
“We should pack up and move far away, where no one will know.”
Joaquim reached across the table for a roll.
Conceição seemed to suddenly take notice of him. “And you,” she said, pointing. “What are you doing about the situation?”
“I try, senhora. I cannot work miracles.” He reached for another roll.
“Bah! Why, dear Mother of God, why? I will take her once again to the padre, tonight. We will light another candle.”
~ ~ ~
Later that evening Conceição sat knitting her twentieth baby sweater, for the child that never came, and listening to the radio. Joana read. The men had gone out for the night.
“I know how it is,” Conceição said suddenly. “Sometimes it is very difficult, but worth it after all in the end. Trust me.”
Joana groaned.
“After all, there are sacrifices and there are sacrifices. It won’t work from prayers alone.”
“Yes, Mother.”
“You must try harder, dear. Believe with all your soul. Pray each night to Santo António that he might help you to be with child.”
Joana nodded.
“Think of nothing more than the blessed event of giving birth, of the good for the family, the honor of being one of God’s vessels, of the rewards, and God will see you’re paid for the trouble.”
“Good night, Mother.”
The next morning Conceição walked to the market. She had long ago decided that no one but her was to be trusted with the shopping. She wound her way a
round the stands briskly, avoiding the looks of the other women. She didn’t bother to squeeze the various fruits and vegetables, frowning with displeasure, or to turn her nose up at the selection of chicken and meat, as she normally did. She pushed her way through, roughly grabbing the food that she picked without much care, haphazardly.
She set her jaw, then muttered a litany of curses and invocations. “Why, why must I have to suffer this ignoble fate, this burden? Has the world turned against me? Just look at their faces, talking behind our backs. I hope their cows run dry, and may their children grow up simple! It’s a sign; God is upset about something. Perhaps in his infinite wisdom he has decided to put an end to our family once and for all. Why? What have we done?”
She stopped by the church and prayed fervently.
~ ~ ~
Mario and his mother showed up at the house before dinner. Conceição appeared flustered when they walked in. They were the first guests to stop by in over a week. “Oh, it’s so good to see you, Dona Lucia.” She rushed up and kissed Senhora Sena, then hugged her warmly, her flabby arms shaking. “Ana, come take her coat. What is the matter with you?” The maid hurried in and took Senhora Sena’s coat and Mario’s jacket.
Conceição patted Mario’s head. “Mario, you’ve certainly grown into such a handsome boy.” She smiled and clasped her hands together.
She led them into the dining room. “Please, sit down. I’m so glad you stopped by.”
“How is Joana?” Senhora Sena asked.
“Oh, she’s in a state. We all are. I just don’t know what to do any more. I’m worried sick.”
“It is such a terrible shame,” Senhora Sena said, reaching over to touch Conceição’s arm.
“Sim. We’ve tried everything, but nothing has helped.”
Senhor Medroso came into the room, followed by Joana and Joaquim. They were startled to see Senhora Sena. “Boa tarde, Dona Lucia,” Senhor Medroso said dryly. Joana and Joaquim kissed her, muttering, “Boa tarde, Dona Lucia,” then sat down at their seats.
Ana began to bring the food into the room; everyone sat and ate in silence.
Mario had sat down in the seat next to Joana, and he looked at her to see if she heard his heart beating. She didn’t appear to notice.
He ate little, and once he swore he felt her dress rub up against his leg.
Mario looked at her and his stomach hardened. Why had she married Joaquim? Anyone could see she was miserable. And he was just a lazy oaf.
After the meal Senhora Sena took Conceição aside. “I have something for Joana,” she said.
“Oh? Something for the problem?” Conceição asked, growing excited.
“Yes. I was given some herbs by Senhora Fagundes. And Senhora Silva said the wings of this butterfly, here,” she handed Conceição an envelope, “that these are very good for conception.”
“Butterfly wings?” Conceição said.
“The wings of a very special butterfly, senhora, one that lives at the top of Pico and no where else.”
“Thank you, Senhora Sena. Who knows? I hope this solves the problem.”
“I’m sure something will happen, you’ll see.”
“Mario. You’re so quiet these days. Almost grown up.”
As Mario and Senhora Sena left, Conceição pleaded with Mario’s mother to come back soon, to not stay away so long, for her house was theirs.
~ ~ ~
Mario’s backyard bordered a field where a neighbor often let his cows graze. On the other side of the field there was a row of tall trees, and behind that the Medrosos’ yard.
One day Mario walked through the field, which was now empty. The sun was overhead, the air warm and still, heavy with the sweet pungent smell of the cows. He strolled up close to the tree behind Joana’s yard. He’d used to climb this tree, to sit on one of its high branches, watching the birds and staring off at Pico in the distance.
He walked between the trees, thinking of Joana and wondering if his mother was right, that the herbs and other things would finally make Joana pregnant.
He heard a girl’s laugh. He moved through the trees and pushed aside the vines to peer into the yard.
Joana sat on a blanket. She was watching a glass ballerina twirl on the blanket. A glass star hung in the air several feet above the dancer. The star caught the sunlight as it turned and reflected colors. Joana laughed and clapped her hands.
It was Joana’s garden, where they used to play. Where the two of them had been constant companions, when they were both still children, before she had grown up.
Joana’s dress, spread out around her, covered half the blanket. A tiny creature crawled out from under the edge of her dress. Mario had never seen anything like it. It moved slowly, was rounded like a shell, and seemed to be made of glass, though it was furrowed and had a purplish tint. He strained to see where it had come from, but all he could see was the edge of Joana’s dress.
Joana reached over and petted the creature, which began singing, making a sound like a music box.
“You sweet thing,” Joana said.
Mario felt light. He wanted to fly, to take her up into the air with him, to float on the gentle wings of her dress. She hadn’t really changed at all. This must be part of the secret. This creature was part of the magic she used, and perhaps it kept her from having babies.
~ ~ ~
Mario returned to the garden every chance he got, where he’d watch Joana from his hiding place in the trees. Sometimes she danced around the blanket while he could only stare, breathless, as she swayed in the sunlight and fragrance. She twirled and moved in the isolated garden, as her dress rose in the air, showing her knees and, occasionally, the pale, creamy skin of her thighs.
Other times she would sit and watch the creatures perform, or simply lie there, looking up at the sky or picking the petals off a flower.
One day, as Joana danced, humming a pretty melody, a bird flew out from under her dress. It was small, not quite the size of Mario’s fist, and bright blue and yellow. It was the prettiest bird Mario had ever seen.
The bird circled Joana, flapping its wings and singing, its birdsong dense with the sound of wind rushing through the island’s thick groves of trees, or of water when the stream was full.
Joana lay down and appeared to go to sleep. The bird flew in a descending spiral and slowly came down to rest on the blanket beside her.
Mario suddenly wanted the bird. What would it hurt? He would just borrow it. She could have it back later. She kept everything to herself, so secret, and he only wanted to be a part of that world, her world, even if just for a little while.
He moved cautiously between the trees, careful not to step on the twigs. He sneaked up to the blanket and reached out his hand. Her dress was so close, but he couldn’t risk waking her.
Mario grabbed the bird and made his way back to the cover of the trees. Then he kept going, past the trees and through the field, back to his own yard.
He held the bird in the pocket of his jacket. When he got to his back door, he took the bird out and let it rest on his palm.
Mario entered his house and went upstairs to his room. He placed the bird in the bottom drawer of his dresser.
~ ~ ~
Mario was scared to go back to the garden, though he knew Joana hadn’t seen him, and couldn’t know he had the bird. Still, he was afraid to look at her.
He spent most of his time in his room, taking the bird out of the drawer and trying to get it to fly. The bird, he’d found, wasn’t real, but made of glass like the other things he’d seen, even down to the feathers, which were thin transparent layers of glass, tinted yellow and blue. But for some reason the bird refused to fly, and after an hour or so he would put it back in the drawer.
He heard from his mother that Joana was behaving differently, though nobody said why. Perhaps, Mario thought, the herbs and butterfly wings his mother had given Senhora Medroso were the cause.
Days later he saw Joana. He hardly recognized her. She walked
listlessly down the avenida that stretched along the waterfront. Her dress hung limp, as if it was wet. It had no life at all. The wind blew, but the dress hardly moved.
Joana had changed. She seemed old and sad. What had happened? Mario wondered.
The bird too lay lifeless on his floor whenever he took it out. Its colors appeared to be fading as well.
He saw her several times over the next few days, but there was nothing of the old, familiar Joana. He couldn’t stand it. He wanted her to laugh and dance the way she always had before, to smile and show the sparkle of her eyes. He longed to hear her singing and playing in her secret garden, but when he went to her yard she wasn’t there anymore.
That night Mario took the bird out of the drawer and petted its smooth glass feathers. It didn’t make a sound. He peered at its green eyes. “I’ll take you back.”
He went out the back door and ran to Joana’s house. He was relieved to find her window open, and aimed, about to toss the bird through. He would make everything all better. “Go back,” he whispered to the bird. He would watch Joana play tomorrow as he hid in the trees.
He drew his arm back and threw the bird straight up to the window, but instead of flying inside it curved and sailed higher, above the house.
It paused for a brief moment, turned, and was no longer a bird but the glass star he had seen Joana with that first day. The star shot forward into the night—a streak of bright light across the sky. Mario remembered how his uncle in Praia Negra had always said a shooting star meant a new baby had come into the world. It hung there among the other stars, glittering and winking, as Mario stood and gasped.
The next day his mother told him he had to go with her to shop for some material, so she would have something made by the time Joana’s baby arrived.
So for centuries the peak has stood, sublime and quiet,
The Conjurer and Other Azorean Tales Page 7
